


Runnin' Wild

by EnterWittyNameHere



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: 1920's, Alastor doing what Alastor does best, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Asexuality Spectrum, Author was in a mood, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M, Female Reader, Human Alastor - Freeform, IDK guys...come get your sin!, Kinda, One Shot, Squint and there's some romance, Stand alone oneshot, There's been a murder..., Touch-Averse Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Vague Ending, he's a murder boi, mention of Hell, slight mention of gore, trigger warning: violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26554675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnterWittyNameHere/pseuds/EnterWittyNameHere
Summary: You were never meant to be one of the lucky ones...
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 61





	Runnin' Wild

**Author's Note:**

> Quick note to say this is a complete stand-alone piece. In no way is it connected to either my Canary series or to Cradles. Although those are equally worthy of your attention ;)
> 
> Not much to say, other than I was craving a more sadistic Alastor. I wrote this quickly, and it's more atmospheric than anything concrete... 
> 
> Mentions of gore, physical violence, alcohol use and a number of other shady things. Because it's Al.

It had started innocent enough - 

Or at least that’s what you would tell yourself in the days and weeks (  _ years, decades, all of time - _ ) in which  _ he _ made himself a permanent fixture in your life; unknowingly, you had sealed your fate the very night he had first told you his name 

_ (“Alastor, sweetheart. Pleasure to make your acquaintance!”) _

His lips had pressed a kiss to the top of your knuckles, his grip tighter than was necessary, but nonetheless sent a thrill down your spine. You had easily been caught up by the spark of mischief in his dark eyes and the alluring quirk of his smile and the promise of grand adventures - if only you’d just take his hand. 

The man had paraded you up and down Main street, along the seedy underbelly of the French Quarter, endlessly eager to show you the side of New Orleans only Alastor seemed to know. He was nothing short of dizzying; a hurricane of chaos and hedonistic ventures, your heels barely touching the ground as he swept you along in his wake.

And then one night, Alastor decided you weren’t meant to be one of the lucky ones...

The two of you burst from Mimzy’s speakeasy, peals of laughter falling from both your lips despite the loud, heavy clang of the metal door snapping shut behind you. Your arm was securely wrapped around his forearm, Alastor two steps ahead of you already, as he always was, causing you to jog lightly to simply keep pace with him. Your giddy laughter rang out, racing along the nearly empty cobblestones in the early morning hours of the still sleepy New Orleans. The masses may still have been sleeping, but the seedy underbelly of the city was still full of life. 

You mused you may have had one too many giggle-waters as you felt your footsteps falter slightly, your smart kitten heels clacking in the still air, your booze-addled mind unable to keep up with the pace Alastor was setting. You cried his name, only to have Alastor spin you, causing you to crash into his side as he continued to usher you along the empty streets. 

Your head spun a bit at his enthusiasm, and a sudden wave of nausea hit you, bitterness liting on the back of your soft palate. You leaned away just enough, legs wobbly like a newborn colt, but your message was clear all the same. 

“A-Al,” You panted. “I-I can’t...hold on, you’re too  _ long _ ” you shook your head, only fueling the slight pounding that was making itself known in your temple. “You’re too tall, I m-mean.” 

His laughter raked over your skin, the usually comforting sound ringing off the closed space of the alleyway he had dragged you down, the sound compounding in your ears in a horribly hollow way that made it sound as though you were surrounded by some ghastly choir. 

You shook off his hand and instead moved to lean against the nearest wall; here, you paused to pat down the curls you could feel escaping from your hairpins and straightened the smart, yet simple-cut dress you adorned. It hadn’t been the flashiest piece in the joint, but you were pleased to note it had kept  _ his _ attention, the cut just enough to show off glimpses of your soft skin. 

The alley was darker than the main street, no street lamp to flood it with warmth and light. With no window to check your reflection in, you hoped you had managed to tame your wild looks, sure the evening of dancing and comradery had given you a rumpled, dishevelled look. 

Across from you, Alastor stood, dressed stylishly and almost painfully perfect; his suit finely pressed, shoes polished and hat poised jauntily just off his forehead, so his curls escaped from the pomade he usually slicked them back with. His eyes twinkled even in the dark, impish and heartbreakingly alluring; his lips were slanted, his smirk almost boyishly charming rather than sardonic. The sight alone made a flurry of butterflies burst in your belly, warmth licking its way up your spine to settle in a heady buzz in your head. 

Alastor sighed your name, his smooth tone caressing the syllables in a way that only he seemed capable of. He stepped closer, his large hands (encased, as always, in his dark leather gloves) came to rest on the wall on either side of your head, so that he could loom down over you - nervous giggles erupted from your throat when he pressed his nose to the tip of yours, his eyes crinkled in mirth behind his rounded spectacles. 

It was startlingly personal, and although the two of you shared personal space while dancing and in cohorts about the city, there was some new sense of intimacy that sweetly laced his actions.

“I…” You faltered, your voice stammering despite your intent to sound teasing. “I-I think I’m falling for you, you scoundrel.” You huffed, your lips close enough that you could feel the responding puff of his own breath as he chuckled. 

“Unfortunately, doll,” He murmured, trailing off as he tilted his face just enough so he could ghost his lips against yours. You leaned into him and titled your head, meeting his action and hoping it would be enough to stir him to kiss you, properly. Affection from the man was far and few in between, the two of you doing nothing more scandalous than a peck on the cheek or to the inside of your wrist. 

You closed your eyes at the first soft press of his lips, warm and slightly chapped, against your own. It was a soft, delicate thing, and yet you felt heat light in your belly at his attention. You went so far as to try and chase his mouth as Alastor pulled away; another chuckle puffing past his lips to fan across your chin.

“That’s a horrible decision, falling for a man like me.”

Your eyes flew open and you blinked, head jerking back slightly at the dark look that shadowed his face, his features set and stoney; much less the animated personality you had come to adore. 

If you had thought to question him, the ability to speak was quickly cut short as one large palm came to rest over your mouth, enough pressure behind it to keep the back of your head pressed to the cold brick of the wall. The leather of his glove was cool against your flushed skin. You felt the first spike of fear as Alastor gazed down at you, his pupils dilating and his thin chest beginning to heave as though in excitement... 

The flash of silver drew your eye away from his slowly changing countenance, the blade long and deadly sharp, it’s point glinting in the dim light. 

You jerked back out of impulse, your flight or fight instinct activated by the pulse of fear that spiked your adrenaline. 

He moved with the same elegant grace and speed as he did when he danced; Alastor shifted so that his (much longer) legs boxed you in, his grip over your mouth tightening. The blade sliced deep, white-hot pain blooming, although it seemed almost secondary to your fear-struck, disoriented mind. He managed to plunge it to the hilt, in between your fourth and fifth rib, before you reacted, hands flying to grab his wrist as though you meant to tug it from your flesh. 

Alastor’s chuckle was dark as he gave the grip a twist, his hand practiced and sure. The moment of confusion followed by absolute terror was  _ almost _ the best part…

One of your hands moved from its futile grip on his own forearm to try and strike at his face, your natural instinct to  _ flee _ by any means overriding the numbing pain radiating from your side. Your open palm made contact with his cheek - although you were beginning to slip from consciousness the more you bled out in his arms - smearing a crimson streak of your blood across the lower side of his face. 

Alastor jerked back enough to break contact, goosebumps of displeasure erupting on his skin. In a spike of irritation, he removed the knife from your side with a smooth pull, before sticking it up and under the back of your shoulder blade; the strike made your lungs wheeze out a hoarse clicking sound. 

The pain was now  _ all _ you could focus on; your hands had flown to the front of his coat, but you were too weak to maneuver your fingers into a hold. Your vision began to swim; in front of you, leering as though thoroughly enjoy every second of your misery, Alastor’s face seemed to warp, becoming monstrous and blurry, his grin much too wide for his features - 

You were dimly aware of the strength finally leaving your muscles, your thundering pulse beginning to slow, the beat of your heart irregular and sporadic. Your vision tunnelled and Alastor’s smile, teeth bared, was the last thing your oxygen-deprived mind was able to comprehend…

And then you were swallowed up by darkness, weightless and suspended in the realm of nonexistence. 

Until you weren't. 

You laid there, blinking up at the deep red sky, confused thoughts racing until your inaction prompted you to your feet. From there, you stumbled down the path of surviving in this (literal) god-forsaken place. 

You were, by some miracle, granted five years of peace (if that was truly possible in eternal damnation) before the tell-tale warning of radio static one day raced along the scales of your new physical form. Your tail swished with your irritation as  _ he _ blinked into existence in front of you, shadows growing monstrously around his ghastly new frame. 

He was tall, taller than he had been when alive even, and he bent neatly at the waist, hand extended in silent offering. Despite how ghastly his grin was, it held the telltale curve of the smile only Alastor had ever managed. 

"Hello there, little darling!" His tone was as smooth and alluring as it ever was. "I was hoping to stumble across you!"

You blinked owlishly as the infamous Radio Demon reached out and pinched a cheek. You jerked your head back, disembodied laughter rumbling from thin air at your ire. 

"You see, my dear," Alastor's head tilted and you watched as his eyes flickered to dials, the swell of static growing until it began to distort his words. In his hands, his microphone spun. 

You became acutely aware that you were undoubtedly facing your final demise - on the verge of Erasure - as he moved to loom over you, the point of the staff handle coming to rest just under your chin, so your face was lifted to his. Alastor pressed his nose to yours, your vision filled with  _ red _ and  _ teeth _ . 

"You were always one of my favourite performances, and I had hoped for an  _ encore _ ."

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if you've made it this far, thank you for sinning with me!


End file.
